


By Blood

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [4]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If things had been different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2014, Wish 1, Request 2:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan, Cyril  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: If things had been different.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Canon (divergence)  
> Special Requests: Do what feels right for the story/art. Really.  
> Story/Art/Either: Either

Cyril was always content to make the best of what they had. As long as Ryan was, if not safe (their childhood never was), then at least sufficiently happy by protective-(not-so)-little-brother-standards. It’s the root of all their problems: Cyril was always content to make the best of what they had, but Ryan never was. And as far as Cyril has always been concerned, what Ryan wants, Ryan gets. Especially if it’s something Cyril can do something about. That’s root number two. (It never occurs to Cyril to mind: it’s not that Ryan’s spoilt, or demanding; it’s just that he’s all ensnaring charm, wit, and brilliant schemes, and Cyril is his very willing loyal soldier. And that’s simply the way they are.)

Root number one gives Ryan bruises, broken bones and scars, and Cyril a soul-deep determination to always keep his brother safe. Root number two leads to him taking up boxing, stealing and dealing. Root number one and two sees them both with their own gang: Cyril leads it, officially, because he’s bigger and tougher and people look up to that. Ryan helps, advises and negotiates (standing in the shadows when the action unfolds, like the master puppeteer he is). It’s interspersed with several all-paid-for indoor vacations (courtesy of the state), a marriage (courtesy of Shannon’s infertility), more fights than either of them can keep track of (courtesy of rival gangs and scorned husbands/boyfriends/fiancés), and a few near-death experiences (courtesy of, really, the same people). Most of those are Ryan’s fault: he’s a fucking genius, but he’s spectacularly unthinkingly hot-blooded when it comes to getting what he wants, and he always wants what he shouldn’t. It doesn’t help that no one can resist him. (Not even Cyril, who’s smart enough to see Very Fucking Bad Ideas coming from a mile away, but not strong enough to say _no, you fuck_ to his brother.)

It all leads to things like this: Ryan fucking some ex in the back of a funeral parlor of all things, and Cyril nearly getting brained. He just gets fucking lucky, really: he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes and dodges. From there it escalates until everybody gets thrown out, but that’s not really anything new either, besides the funeral parlor part.

Afterwards, Ryan laughs and complains he didn’t even get to fuck the girl. Cyril cuffs him on the back of his stupid head. _That’s_ new. Maybe he’s still pissed off about Ortolani. (Ryan carrying a gun is Cyril’s idea. It’s for show, for the times Ryan slips away from him: because while Cyril’s a stupidly good shot, no matter how much he tries to train his brother, Ryan is, to both their immense frustration, not even remotely decent with a gun. Or a knife. Or his fists, really. His _tongue_ is his weapon, and that’s not any fucking good when faced with a bullet, but turning tail and running to his little brother isn’t something Ryan knows how to do.)

Eventually, karma catches up. If they believed in shit like that. At any rate, _something_ does, and Cyril promptly drags Ryan to the hospital, because apparently the idiot does know he can run to his little brother if he gets too freaked out. They wait hours for Ryan to get looked at, poked, prodded and stung, and then days and days for the results to arrive. When they finally do, Ryan gets horribly high and drunk and very nearly OD's. Would have, if he’d been alone with only his wife. When it’s finally safe to allow him to sleep, Cyril leaves him in Shannon’s horrified compassionate arms and goes destroy everything in his own apartment with meticulous rage. And then he plots. And researches. And plots some more.

Ryan doesn’t have any kind of insurance; neither of them has. They can’t fucking afford a mastectomy. As it is, they can barely afford the lumpectomy and following chemo. Cyril doesn’t let that stop him: he’s got a gang, and he’s quite resourceful even with his brother unconscious. (Actually, _especially_ when his brother’s unconscious, because that means _Ryan_ is what’s at stake, and that’s simply something that can never happen. Even if it does. When it does, _The Wrath of Hell_ is the only way to describe what Cyril unleashes on the perpetrators. There is no hole big or small enough to hide from a vengeful Cyril O’Reily, and mercy is not in his vocabulary. Nor is guilt. Ortolani is only alive because Ryan thought of a worse punishment: life without his oh-so-dear family is ultimately worse than the slow painful death Cyril was envisioning for him while he waited to hear if his brother would live.) He finds all the fucking money, and then some, and just takes care of things without even informing his brother. Ryan can be pissed at him when he’s well again.

Which is, of course, exactly what happens: Ryan’s never taken well to being coddled (despite Cyril actually doing just that far more often than Ryan realizes), and has what basically amounts to a hissy bristling fit worthy of the worse tempered cat when he’s conscious enough after the surgery to process what Cyril has done. He’s still in his gaping hospital gown, all pale with his hair a complete mess, fumbling with the funny disposable hospital slippers and choking on a steady stream of profanities as he glowers at Cyril, who absolutely cannot help snickering at him. _A lot_.

Ryan’s spent almost the entire time between the tests results and the surgery in a depressed _I’m-going-to-die_ haze, punctuated by occasional panic attacks and _a lot_ of sleeping (courtesy of Cyril and his Magical Supply of All Kinds of Drugs, as he likes to say), and yeah, because the idiot was so certain of his impending death, it’s stupidly funny to see him resurface.

“What,” Cyril laughs after ducking an uncharacteristically well-aimed slipper, “didn’t I tell you I’m never letting you die?” (He hadn’t been so confident Ryan would survive surgery, but Ryan doesn’t need to know that.)

“You didn’t have to – to – _fucking plot behind my back_!” is Ryan’s indignant answer. His eyes have narrowed and he’s almost sulking ( _pouting_ , in Cyril’s opinion, but Ryan never admits to it). Cyril gets that Ryan hates being vulnerable, he really does. There’s being shit in a fight and taking a bullet and then _this_. Cancer, even more so _breast cancer_ is just an entirely different, far worse sort of vulnerable, that Ryan’s stupidly smart brain just hasn’t been able to even _start_ sorting through.

It still makes him slightly angry though: life without Ryan is not something his own brain can even go near. It’s just impossible. “What, just let you crawl under a rock and die? I told you, fucktard, you’re not dying. I’ll always save your fucking ass whether you like it or not.”

Ryan grits his teeth, looking a bit abashed.

“You’re welcome,” Cyril tells him, glaring a bit.

“Yeah,” whispers Ryan, closing his eyes. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed and suddenly looks absolutely drained. Cyril hurries to sit next to him, pulls him into a half-hug, and Ryan finally just gives up and leans against him kind of bonelessly.

“By the way,” Cyril inquires offhandedly, “if you could have a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where’d’you go?”

“Ireland,” Ryan answers without opening his eyes.

Cyril grins. “Ireland it is.”

Ryan opens his eyes to stare at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Ireland,” Cyril repeats with a grin that’s reaching shit-eating proportions, “You, me and Shannon. As soon as you’re completely cleared.”

Ryan’s gaping a little, but his eyes are lighting up like they did when he was five and Cyril had stolen a big chocolate bar in scary old Clohessy’s shop to give him as a birthday present, complete with newspaper wrapping and a stringy bow made of old shoe laces. (Of course the first thing he ever stole was something for his brother. Root number two and all that shit.) “Really?”

Cyril can’t stop smiling. “Really.”

“Where the hell did you find all that money?” Ryan demands incredulously.

“I’m magical,” Cyril deadpans, “I willed it into existence.”

Ryan promptly bashes him with his thin hospital pillow, and Cyril laughs.

“Seriously,” Ryan half-hisses, half-whines, looking more worried than amused.

Cyril rolls his eyes. He’s not fucking stupid, and it’s past time Ryan realized that, no matter what it does to his brother’s ego. “Seriously,” he says, “trust me.”

Of course the anxious fucker opens his mouth to continue arguing, but Cyril cuts him off immediately, tone heavy, grasping the back of Ryan’s head. “No. Ryan, _trust me_.”

Ryan stares at him for a moment, searching for something in Cyril’s eyes, before he sighs and just lets his forehead drops to rest against Cyril’s. “Okay,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Cyril tells him, kissing him on the forehead like he’s the oldest one and Ryan’s the sniveling little snot who just finally agreed to take his foul-smelling cold syrup after a shitload of arguing (which is not too far from the truth, he thinks. Or at least it’s pretty much what it feels like). He ignores Ryan’s rather sleepy indignantly amused snort and maneuvers his brother so he’s lying on the bed again with Cyril sitting near his head. “Now,” he continues, “I don’t think we’ll need return tickets, see, ‘cause we could just stay there. I know this guy who knows this guy who knows this guy…”

He keeps bullshitting about possibilities until Ryan falls asleep. (He’s not sure they could truly leave everything and start over, but it’s a nice thought, and Ryan seems to like it. So maybe they will, if they can get the gang to stand on its own. Cyril’s not too worried: Ryan’ll be back to his usual stupidly brilliant scheming self in no time, and they’ll figure it out.) At some point, Shannon comes back and offers him coffee, but Cyril doesn’t budge from his spot until visiting hours are over and the nurse threatens to call security to forcefully remove him.

He drops Shannon at Ryan’s house and goes buy plane tickets. (He kind of wants to see Ireland too.)


End file.
